The Everlasting Chapel

by Marilyn Cruise

  We find a small patch of secluded grass behind the Portland Museum of Art building where he spreads a red and blue plaid blanket.

  Since I did all the talking last time, I think it’s only fair that it’s his turn. After we’ve settled down, I ask him why he chose to go into the medical field.

  “My father,” he says, “used to have a weekly interview with me, questioning me on things like sexual purity, whether or not I said my daily prayers, how many hours I studied the Bible, etc. And with his other radical ideas, he’s somewhat of a Christian extremist.”

  “Like what kind of ideas?” I ask, popping a grape into my mouth.

  “He doesn’t believe in medical science. He claims that one must turn to God in times of both physical and spiritual need. When my grandmother on my mother’s side fell ill, he even convinced her to go against the doctor’s recommendations. She left the hospital, and…” He pauses and takes a deep breath, his face steeped in sorrow as if he’s remembering it clearly. “She died two days later.”

  “That’s horrible. Were you close to your grandmother?” I ask softly.

  He looks out into the distance. “Yes. She was a huge part of my upbringing, like a second mother. A few months later I found out that if she had listened to the doctors, she would have lived. It was an easy fix, but she wanted to please my father. I was seventeen at the time. My grades were crappy, and I had a very poor attitude. After she died, I vowed to become a doctor. It was and still is my way to honor my grandmother.”

  “So you’re like the black sheep of the family then, rebelling from your parents’ ways?”

  He smiles, and gently kicks my foot. “To my father, I am. My sisters and mother all are against him in that way.”

  “And your mother stayed with him?”

  “Yes. They have tons of issues, but somehow they make it work. I know my father loves my mother, and that my mother loves him, too. I think it’s the only thing that keeps them together.”

  I gaze out into the distance. I don’t want to end up old and miserable, arguing with Michael every day, just settling for a crap relationship because the sex is so good. But then again, when I’m around Michael, I really do feel as if I belong with him. Why is that? He brings out the best and the worst in me. Every damn day. “Well, love isn’t always enough.”

  “That’s for sure,” Spencer says.

  We eat the sandwiches and fruit, and he makes a toast to friends and lovers.

  “Hey, it’s almost time for you to get back,” he says. “The rest of the week I’m on call so I probably won’t be able to make lunch. But do you want to go clubbing on Saturday?”

  “Sure,” I say. It’s a while since I’ve been, and I would definitely enjoy a night on the town.

  * * *

  That night I give my two-weeks notice at Ophelia’s. I ask Bernadette, one of the other part-time waitresses, if she’ll cover for me on Saturday, and she agrees to do it. She says she needs the money since her lousy ex hasn’t been paying child-support for their three children.

  I check my balance daily to see if the check has cleared, but all there is, is just a big, fat, pending amount. Learning how the president of the bank knew about the deal, I am now almost certain that the check is legit. Although, one could never be too sure with Mrs. Manning.

  The rest of the week goes pretty smoothly, and as promised, Michael doesn’t call me. I thought I’d be okay with that, but for some reason when he hasn’t called by Friday, I start to feel a little neglected. Wow, I’m such an idiot sometimes. I ask a guy not to call me, and when he doesn’t, I feel ignored. Where, oh, where is the sanity?

  By Saturday, I’m so exhausted from work that I consider canceling with Spencer. When I tell my father about it and say I want to spend time with him instead, he becomes angry and insists I leave the house and don’t come back until a very unrespectable hour. He says I’ve been way too uptight and stressed lately and need to go have some fun. I don’t tell him who I’m going with, but at this point, I’m not going to introduce anyone to my father unless I actually have a rock on my finger. I don’t care that my father has already met the guy and that he’s his doctor. Seriously, when did I become so anal?

  What’s even worse is Vivian backs my father up. I accuse them of being PIC’s, and they mischievously glance at each other. Are they…? No. Not that I don’t want my father to find someone again—he needs a woman to make him happy. But I’m not going to ask. I don’t want to know, not yet.

  I take a shower, and dress in a black, leather mini skirt, wedges, and a light gray satin tank top that is speckled with crystals. I realize it is January, and that I’ll be cold while I wait to get inside the club, but once inside, I’m sure it will be melting hot, and I hate sweating like a pig while I’m dancing.

  Spencer picks me up at 8:00 p.m., and we eat dinner at a local pub. Then he drives me to The Fountain. I’ve never heard of it. Not that that’s particularly strange—I don’t go clubbing often, but what is strange is that not even the girls at The Black Chapel have mentioned this place. They’re always going on about which club is the best in town. Which tells me, either this place is a brand spankin’ new one, or it’s just a really crappy one.

  “Have you been here before?” I ask Spencer just as we’re getting in line in front of the red brick building.

  “No. It’s a new club,” he says. “I thought it might be fun to check out. If you want to go somewhere else, we can.”

  “No, this is fine.” I just want to get inside before my legs become two ice stilts.

  Spencer wraps his arms around me, and although I don’t really feel comfortable with so much physical contact yet, it helps me stay warm. It takes forever, but we finally make it inside. The place is gorgeous and packed to the hilt. Fancy chandeliers hang from the raised ceiling, plush leather couches stand around the gigantic dance floor, and on the second level there are tables and chairs.

  Spencer takes me by the arm and leads me over to the bar where we sit down. One of the five bartenders approaches us.

  “Free drinks all around tonight for the grand opening,” he says with a smile.

  Spencer looks at me and gestures with his hand toward me.

  “Tequila,” I say.

  “Make that two,” Spencer says.

  Shit. Maybe I should have ordered something a little milder. I don’t want to make any mistakes tonight, and I’m definitely not ready to do anything stupid with Spencer. It could ruin the great friendship that’s developing between us.

  The bartender brings us our drinks, and I look around. Colorful lights are flashing everywhere, and the music is loud and heavy, the base vibrating through me, making me want to move my body.

  “Salt?” Spencer holds a shaker up.

  I lick the top of my hand, let him pour some salt on it, lick it, and bottoms up. I grab a lime wedge, bite into it, the tartness making my mouth water, and swallow down. When I look back at Spencer, he has this lustful grin on his face. Oh, dear. I really need to talk to him.

  “Don’t let me drink anymore,” I say.

  “Okay.” He drinks his tequila and orders another one.

  “I didn’t realize you were still so fond of partying,” I say.

  He scoots in closer and leans his cheek against mine, talking into my ear. “I don’t really party anymore. I just wanted us to forget about life for a while and have some fun. I felt like you needed it.”

  Yes, I do. “Sounds like a plan,” I say. And in that spirit, I order another tequila. To hell with moderation and self-control. Tonight I am going to have fun and not worry about the past or the future. As long as I don’t go overboard, I’ll be okay, and I trust if I do, Spencer won’t take advantage.

  A half an hour later, I feel delightfully buzzed and carefree enough to go out onto the dance floor and let it all loose. I take Spencer’s hand in mine, and lead him into the middle of the swaying crowd. The lights are flashing, the music upbeat and blaringly loud, and for the first time in weeks, I am ac
tually enjoying myself. I can’t tell whether it’s the drink or the club or Spencer, but the combination makes me feel alive again. Happy again.

  I’m glad I wore a mini skirt and tank top now; it’s hot as hell in here. I start to dance, but after a few seconds, I have to stop and stare at Spencer. Holy shit this guy can move! Hanging out with him, I don’t consciously remember that he used to work at Hunk-O-Mazing. He’s so proper and a perfect gentleman all the time, but watching him dance it becomes glaringly obvious that he’s a professional. And that he was very…very good at his job.

  I mean, he’s not fully into strip mode, but the way his firm hips and rock hard abs roll, the way he’s completely coordinated and oh, so wickedly tantalizing, I have to say that I’m getting turned on. I’m not into stripper guys at all, but seeing this, knowing who he is—a doctor, and a sweet, sweet man—I almost think I might want to try to get a little closer. And with the tequila buzzing around in my head, the flashing lights, the music hypnotizing my body into moving, I see things heading into dangerous territories. Watching, I almost think I feel something more than friendship for him.

  Spencer smiles at me as if he’s thinking some wicked thought. He grabs my hips and swivels me around, places his hands on my hips again and grinds himself against me.

  Holy hell. He’s hard for me, his erection pressing into my ass. I hadn’t expected this! What do I do? I don’t want to move ahead yet. I’m not ready! I am still completely heartbroken about Michael. I still love Michael.

  Standing so close to Spencer now, I notice that I’m about as tall as him with my wedges on. He just seems larger because he’s so muscular and because he has this aura of confidence. He keeps grinding his hard-on into me, and I reach my hands back and tug at his hair.

  “Yeah, babes,” he says into my ear.

  I laugh, and lean my head back onto his shoulder. Gazing up to the second floor, my heart suddenly stops when I see who’s standing up there.

  Michael.

  I feel a sharp pang in my stomach. What the hell is he doing here? And what’s worse is he has his arm wrapped around a gorgeous blonde’s waist, and he’s whispering something onto her ear. I think I’m going to be sick.

  7

  What is he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be at the grand opening of his new business? And here he is feeling up some blonde who looks like she does nothing else than to spend her day in the spa, hair salon, and nail salon all day long.

  Well, he’s not technically feeling her up, if I’m going to be completely fair, just nonchalantly wrapping his arm around her back. But I know Michael all-too well. I know what he’s thinking and that he’ll probably take her home and screw her tonight. The thought zaps all the energy out of my body, and I stop moving all together. He told me he would be at his new business’ grand opening!

  Then it hits me. This is a grand opening. This is technically a business. This is…his business? I don’t know. Maybe he already went to his own business’ grand opening and stopped by here to celebrate with the Miss Blondie up there. I don’t really have anything against blondes. Only when he shows interest in one of them.

  Didn’t he say he would wait for me forever? He just told me a few days ago that he would wait! That fucking liar! Well, again, here I am the fool. I so wanted to believe him this time, and I thought he might be sincere, but no. He’s nothing but a horny, lying rat!

  I haven’t been looking at him for longer than a couple of seconds, my mind is processing at lightning speed, but before I’m able to look away, his eyes connect with mine.

  Shit! He saw me. What do I do now? The petty part of me wants to hurt him back, wants him to suffer as much as I do, as much as I have. He’s put me through the ringer so many times, and yet time after time I return to him, a whipped puppy, a desperate woman who is unable to let go.

  Spencer moves his hands from my waist to my front abdomen. If Michael has any shred of feeling left for me, he won’t like it that I’m here with another guy and that I’m dancing with him in this way. I grab Spencer’s hands and move them to my breasts as I lean my head back onto his shoulder. I hope the double-dealer is still watching. I turn around, grab Spencer’s shoulders, pull him to me, and crash my lips to his.

  Plunging my tongue into his mouth, I press myself up against him. His breath tastes of mint and tequila, and it almost turns me on. Spencer kisses me back, a little reluctantly at first, but when I move my hands across his back, he fists his hand into my hair and deepens the kiss. Okay, I’m feeling it now.

  Oh, dear God, even though he is an amazing kisser, I really hate myself right now. It’s not that I don’t want my relationship with Spencer to progress—I am attracted to him and really enjoy spending time with him—but right now I’m using him to try and make Michael jealous.

  That is so wrong.

  Just so wrong.

  I would blame it on being drunk. However, I’m not that drunk—actually not drunk at all only buzzed, and haven’t really lost any judgment.

  I pull back a little, but continue to press my body against Spencer’s, noticing his impossibly firm chest against mine, his solid thighs, his rock hard biceps as I grip them. He feels really good. Warm, sweaty, willing. I wrap my arms around his neck and we start to sway with the music.

  “Sorry,” I say into his ear.

  “What’s there to be sorry for?” He removes a stay hair from my forehead and presses his lips softly to mine before pulling back and saying, “That was so hot.”

  I give him a thin smile, but when his eyes light up, I look away. “Excuse me. I just have to use the ladies room.”

  “I’ll be waiting at the bar,” he says.

  I nod and weave my way through the crowd of men and women. Uncertain if Michael is still watching, I peek up to the second floor again. He’s gone. I’m so stupid. Well, at least I sent him a strong message: that I’m not available, and that I have moved on.

  But if sending him a message was the right thing to do, why do I feel so horrible? Why do I despise myself and wish I could turn back time and undo what I did? This entire situation is wrong. I was on the mend before he came to my house. Before he took me out to coffee and declared he loved me. That was my mistake. I should never have let him in—not even for a second—because now I’m heartbroken. Again.

  When I’m almost to the restroom, I feel someone grab my elbow, and as I turn around, I see two angry, intense blue eyes glaring into mine.

  “Michael,” I gasp. He takes my hand, pulls me with him down the hallway past all the crowds of people, and into a small office. There’s a nice new wooden desk, a swivel chair, a file cabinet, and a flat screen TV that is mounted to the wall.

  “What are you doing here? Did you come here to hurt me?” he asks, his eyes ablaze.

  “What? No…I…”

  ‘Then what was that? I know you saw me standing up on the second floor. Why else would you stick your tongue down someone else’s throat?” He runs a hand through his dark, messy hair. “Jesus, Scarlett. You’re fucking killing me here.”

  “Well, you were groping Blondie up there. I thought you said you would wait for me forever, and here you are just a few days after—”

  “Well, I invited someone else first, but she turned me down so I invited my cousin instead,” he yells his voice stern.

  She’s his…cousin? Oh...shit. I turn away from him, feeling like such an idiot. Crossing my arms over my chest, I close my eyes.

  “I just have one question for you,” he says in a low voice. I can hear the anger behind it and how he’s doing his best to temper it down.

  Feeling like a complete asshole, I open my eyes and cautiously glance at him. His eyes are full of emotion, his nostrils flared, and his entire body rigid.

  “Did you do it because you were hurt and wanted to get back at me?” he asks.

  Part of me wants to say absolutely no, but that wouldn’t be true.

  “Or do you actually care about him?” he continues.

  He take
s a step closer, and suddenly that invisible power that draws us together ignites the space between us. I notice even more now how it’s there with Michael, and how it isn’t there with Spencer. It’s like day and night. Fire and ice.

  “I thought—” I start.

  “I know what you thought. Shit, Scarlett. We’re so messed up.” He drags a hand down his face. “I can’t even make a promise to you, and next thing I know, you think I’ve broken it. You don’t even give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “That’s why I don’t know what to do! Every time I open up to you, it’s a slap in the face! I’m so fucking tired and scared of being hurt again, Michael. Aren’t you?”

  He steps closer to me, and I inch backward. He moves toward me again, and I retreat. I feel as if I’m being hunted by a wild predator, one who will take no prisoners. Part of me wants for nothing else than for him to take me, to claim me as his, but a big part of me is terrified, too.

  He keeps advancing, and I keep retreating deeper into the office. Soon I bump up against the desk and have no more room to recoil. But he doesn’t stop. Slowly, he walks towards me, his eyes intently on mine, burning with that same desire I’ve seen before.

  Oh. Dear. Heaven.

  My breath is held hostage by his stare as my ability to flee dwindles into nothingness. He stops a few inches away from me, but doesn’t touch me, only glances down at me from where he towers above.

  If I just rise to my tiptoes and lean forward, I could be kissing him. I could have his strong arms hungrily caressing my body, his mouth and tongue driving me wild with need, him buried deep, oh, so deep inside of me.

  All of a sudden my legs feel like two useless pieces of jelly, and oh, the burn in my lower stomach wants nothing but to be extinguished by him. How does he do that to me? Why is it so different with him than with Spencer? I can’t even begin to explain it, but the difference is astounding.

  “I won’t do anything until you tell me to,” he says in a deep, raspy voice that shoots straight to my core. “Not until you are ready to give it—to give us—your all.” His eyes drop to my mouth, my cleavage, and he licks his lower lip.